


senza

by Dissonencia



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:08:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3825106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissonencia/pseuds/Dissonencia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a break up story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He thinks of the anatomy of a person's heart, the stock market, how ladies wear 5-inch high heels all day, getting a fellatio from a porn star in a public bus, all things constant: fear and disappointment and dreams; all things not: blood and breathing and waking,  _and_ , in the end, he concludes, nothing really distracts him.

Then, he thinks, times like this when shitty songs from the local radio station make sense.

He sits in his office desk, his head hangs and alone –waiting for 7 pm.


	2. Chapter 2

(he rings the door and she answers hurriedly, her place untidy, the city lights twinkling like scattered stars in her large glass windows, the dinner half-cooked, her paintbrushes and canvasses scattered and strewn all over, the color on her lips half done)

He in his black coat, he steps inside with a little more intimidation than he would like, he takes the leather gloves from his hands as he approaches her. He doesn't think though, he reaches for her, palms wide, he places both in her cheeks and tilts her head to his and kisses her like he doesn't have the next minute to hold on to her, like magic truly existed.

(Rukia raided her closet for something to wear and found out –it doesn't really matter)


	3. Chapter 3

He holds her shoulders tight and he pushes her down on the bed, gets on top of her and holds her face and wipes the red from lips, he thinks he could name one galaxy from her eyes, then another, and another, until he exhausts all, until she's bare, everything that is all, all of her –he knows.

She hooks one leg on his waist,  _go on, go on_.

Ichigo takes his coat off, then shirt and unbuckles his belt. She starts to remove the dress she carefully chooses but he stops her hand and brings it to his lips and kisses her skin slowly.

Then he wonders, does reality defeats imagination? Or imagination defeats reality? What would he do after this?

He seeks her eyes (so purple, so full of promise of eternity and stars and everything that was before) and against the faint city lights, she smiles apologetically, gently, so so gently that it is not like her at all,  _I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry_.

But he answered already, when she told him her plans,  _it's okay, it's fine_ , all the monotonous, single syllable replies he could think of. And his eyes repeat it,  _it's okay, it's fine_.

(that she breaks up with him and offers a last night together)

Because he understands –not really, he still doesn't but he tells her he does so she won't leave him with a heavy heart and she can look ahead, yet she carries his own heart like it's a part of her already and he doesn't know if she'll ever return it. (because he isn't that selfish, or maybe he is, but he feels too weak to create chains around her)

He pushes the dress of her and quickly laps on one breast and his tongue glides on her skin, scorching and leaving trails. His hands, oh how she delights in them, clutches her waist and keeps her in place beneath him. Rukia has her arms wounded on his bright hair, and pushes his face to her skin. "Go on," says Rukia, but she doesn't add: for the last time.

Ichigo takes off whatever clothing still left in him and hovers over her positioning himself on her and enters her slowly – _oh that familiarity_ , he feels. Is it really the last time, he wants to ask.


	4. Chapter 4

"You think I'm too boring for you."

-no no no-

(because he deals with pie charts, bar graphs, projection plans, routine, meetings, brewed coffee, Brioni, corner office)

He remembers: he tried to buy all her works in exchange for her number one particular night in a Parisian gallery near Seine –in which she refused. She had been lucky and talented (still) and beautiful (still) and was featured as a breakthrough (no surprise). And by chance, he was there.

Then 2 months later, lifestyle magazines and blogs and sites and papers happily chewed on their European jaunts, the gallery in Paris was the starting line, then how she ignored his dinner invitation in Italy, then left him in La Sagrada Familia in Spain (in the rain). He's the young businessman son of a magnate, and she's the artsy sister of another magnate,  _it must happen_  and the high society smelled a business merge and he followed her back to Japan.

They are stellar and beautiful and glamorous and rare and maybe it's real and they will have a _grande_  wedding and a soap opera has never been this talked about because she's just really pretty and he's just really attractive and look what life brought together, perfect couple on perfect circumstances living perfect lives in a perfect story with a perfect ending.

She thinks he has the softest skin –she doesn't tell him because ah,  _well_ , machismo- and she likes smoothening her hands on his chest as he fills her over and over and over –because it's near the heart and she likes to be near what's hers- and she knows he likes to be touched, too, intimately and warmly. She likes his eyes the best.

"No," she answers, "no no no," (her answer comes in unsteady breathing because Ichigo's head resides in her neck, the ticklish part he likes to attack: his lips hot on her throat, her hands begin pulling his hair, her back arches and his arms around her) you inspired many of the colors on my works.


	5. Chapter 5

"I mimic life," she says, "I impersonate emotions, I give them forms and tell a story,  _how dare you_?"

She draws in muted colors and takes in the simplicity of lines; her works speak silence and grace and deeper sense.

The last three words come as accusation after he offers an amount, "It's not enough?"

She doesn't glare at him, but turns her face away, face passive:  _oh, you are not worth my time_.

 _Ah_ , thinks Ichigo then,  _I can't buy her_. She's not about the money. Or fame.

He stands beside her, a few feet apart, and in front of them is Venus de Milo. He's in his business suit, deep black, a red scarf around his neck because the weather tells him to do so, his shoulder-length bright orange hair attention-grabbing.

This he will definitely remember and he's shameless in staring at her, she makes a strong impression with her purple eyes, short black hair, short stature –in high heels, tight and short black dress that pops out her curves. (and an angry pretty face, he probably had seen her face once in the business section of whatever newspaper his assistant place in his coffee table) She draws people around her, numerous men obviously, she's black-haired and radiant, sophisticated and intelligent, opinionated and talented.

"Are you always uptight?" he asks, she doesn't answer though, "you must be fun to be with," he suddenly imagines his future life with her.

"Or you can give me the price," he offers and she stays passive.

Then he laughs a more casual one then says gruffly, "Fine, your works aren't for sale and yeah well fuck, I get it. I don't really have a wall to place them anyway I just want your number," the last part comes as a murmur, "and since I'll still be hitting on you for the rest of the night, why don't you just save the spiteful remarks and have coffee with me? This is more productive and straightforward, don't you think?" He runs his hand in his hair, "You might like me, you never know."

"No-"

"It's not like I'm asking you to fuck me," he steps in front of her and takes his red scarf and places it around her, "it's cold outside," he smiles, answering for her then clutches her hand.


	6. Chapter 6

“Imagine living forever…”

“Well, holy-fucking-shit.”

“Really, listen-”  

“What kind of shit are you taking?” There’s Ichigo and summertime and black sunglasses and a light blue buttoned-up shirt to match his beige shorts and a creaky table in a café-patisserie in Amsterdam and a voice so raspy and dry from drinking too much.

“I –what?” Rukia grimaces, pretty in a tomato red short dress and a white brim hat and a pair of white pumps, “excuse me?”

“Oh you know, ultra artsy people snorting-”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Rukia interjects, “but your upbringing is quite rude,” _I_ _don’t even know why I put up with this man at all_.  She takes a slow sip of her latte –inexplicably graceful and he stares.

“I prefer to call it…” he takes out a small flask (and Rukia’s eyebrow arches) and pours the contents in his brewed coffee, “ _rawness_. You’ll find out soon, through a bed, nudity and city lights, that I’m really like that, a raw motherfucker.” Noticing her expression, he says, “I stock up on Belgian beers, so what?”

Rukia dismisses him once more and interests herself instead on the line of potted hydrangea beside him, at the lovely Dutch couple walking past her, on the smell of raspberry tarts and pecan pies.

She doesn’t talk anymore, and he stops, too.

This Kurosaki man is a whirlwind of experiences. Four months of being with him –unwillingly of course, because the man never gives up. She went in and out of the country; he went in and out of the country as well, following her, leaving his properties and dealings, as if it were nothing. She understands that he holds a key economic position back in the country, some type of responsibility parallel to her brother. Her brother takes his contribution and seat seriously. She doesn’t understand why this Kurosaki man just frolics. And she, she has her reasons.

He sort of became a companion and a stalker, holding her hands in trains and staircases and holding the door open for her, booking in the same hotels and flights and restaurants and joins and chats with her.

She goes where the literati and the impressionists are, and he goes with her. He speaks their language and knows their culture; he’s never out of place.  This, she finds comforting in a strange way.

There is some form of gentlemanly decency in him, she observes, when multiple rooms aren’t obtainable and only one is available, he sleeps at the foot of her bed, not in her bed itself, not beside her, but at the foot wrapped in a blanket and despite his frequent sexual innuendos, he never pushes to sleep with her.

Maybe, she judged him too hard on that one night in Seine. And maybe, he’s lonely.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Ichigo asks.

 

 

 


End file.
